“Who are Dex and Britta?” I inch forward, feeling only slightly better about the progress I’ve made, literally and metaphorically. Finding Frankie still feels impossible.
“Frankie’s friends. Just trust me. Go there first but hurry. They close soon.”
“Easy for you to say. I’ve gone one mile in the last ten minutes. There’s an accident on the 101.”
“Cal, tell me you didn’t actually take the 101.”
“Maps said it was fastest.”
“Well, it’s not now, so change course.”
“I’ve got a cop right behind me. I can’t pick up my phone.”
Cassidy lets out a long, deeply exasperated sigh. “You need a new truck, Cal. One you can talk to in emergencies like this,” she scolds in a voice that doesn’t encourageanyProtective Brother instincts. “Tell me the name of the closest exit to you.”
“Los Alisos is a half mile.”
A few seconds later, she says, “Perfect. Get off there and follow my instructions.”
In that moment, a pocket opens up in traffic and I’m able to navigate to the exit. For the next twenty minutes, Cassidy guides me down side streets and boulevards through the outskirts of LA while also lecturing me on what I should and should not do when I see Frankie again. Until finally, I can’t take it anymore and decide to sacrifice a couple minutes in order to have a less opinionated navigator.
I pull into a gas station and park. “Give me the address again. I’ll map myself.”
“I’m too invested now to not go with you all the way to Frothed!” she protests. “I at least need to know that you’ve?—”
“—Not happening, Cass!” I yell, feeling only slightly guilty after all her help. “I didn’t think you even liked Frankie.”
She huffs. “I don’t like what she did, but I like her for you. I like her for Junie. Now go get her back.”
With the address in my map and a clear,silent, path to Frothed, I put my truck in drive and speed toward some little coffee shop that, at this point, is my only chance of finding Frankie. And it’s kind of a long shot.
Half an hour later, after being rerouted more than once to avoid traffic, I pull up in front of a blue-painted beach cottage that’s been converted to a coffee shop. There’s no parking in front of it, and it’s closing time, so I take my chances I’ll get ticketed and pull into a red zone.
I run toward the door just as a personinside flips a CLOSED sign. I pound on the door until a blonde woman comes back, eyeing me suspiciously through the window.
“Are you Britta?” I yell through the door’s thick glass.
“Who are you?” she yells back, gripping a very large knife in her right hand.
I put my hands up where she can see them and step back from the door. “Cal Holloway. I’m looking for Frankie.”
Her eyes widen, then narrow with even more suspicion. But, slowly, she unlocks the door and steps outside.
“I’m Britta.”
I take off my hat and offer my hand, which she shakes both reluctantly and briefly. “It’s nice to meet you. Sorry to bother you. It’s just… I need to find Frankie. Maybe she’s told you about me.”
“She has. Why do you need to see her?” Her voice is flat and sounds as suspicious of me as her eyes do.
“I need to tell her I was wrong. I need to tell her—” I scrape a hand through my hair, then meet her hard gaze. “I need to tell her I love her.”
Britta examines me for a few more seconds before her mouth pulls into a slow smile. But her warmth turns too quickly to apology. “I actually don’t know where she is. Have you tried calling her?”
I shake my head. “My Aunt Flo told me not to. She gave me very strict instructions that this wasn’t something I could do over the phone.”
“Flamingo Flo?”
I nod.
